“He’s even hotter in person,” Zara breathed into the phone. “As if that’s possible. Get over here and see him for yourself—I can get you on the guest list.”
I hesitated. It was tempting. That was one perk in having Zara for a friend, who was always off partying with hot billionaires like Severn Wilde. But that was her world, not mine. Lusting over a sexy celebrity mogul at a fancy eventwouldmake for a fun evening, but who was I kidding? I was more the sweatpants and watching-reality-TV-at-home type. Especially after the day I’d had.
“Thanks, but I’m not up for it today. Listen, something bad happened at work…”
Once I filled her in on the incident with Professor Decker, she agreed to let me crash at her house despite her parents’ rules. She gave me her apartment key code, followed by a string of curses aimed at entitled, powerful men.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come out?” she pressed. “Open bar. Hot billionaires.”
The coffee shop bathroom door flew open. A couple looked at me guiltily, their faces flushed red.Oh, great. That’swhat had been taking so long. The girl giggled, “Sorry,” as the pair ducked past me, tucking in their shirts.
“You flirt with those billionaires for me,” I said. “Both the men and the women.” When it came to romantic partners, Zara had no gender preference—she just liked them smoking hot and with a wicked sense of humor.
I hung up the phone and, gritting my teeth, pushed into the empty bathroom. I balled up fistfuls of paper towels, sobbing into them to the wailing tunes blasting through the speakers, and then, after I’d cried as much as a person could, splashed cold water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and strode out of the bathroom.
No more tears. No more letting powerful men take advantage of me—ever.
I stopped at the message board and gave the nanny ad a long look.
I needed a job. I needed a place to live. It would probably be working for some rich, insufferable family that would treat me like crap, but at least it would be an income. And hey, maybe I’d get lucky and the kids would be sweet.That is, if it isn’t a complete scam.
“Why the hell not.”
I ripped the nanny flyer off the board and stuffed it in my backpack, telling myself I’d call the number tomorrow.
Zara’s apartment was a luxury third-floor walk-up with a view over Chelsea Park. The bedroom and living room were small, but she’d rented the apartment for its kitchen, which was huge by New York City standards. Plenty of prep space to cook her cilantro-heavy dishes, a full-sized fridge and oven, and even a washing machine, which was practically unheard of for a rental.
I dropped my backpack on the sofa and went to the kitchen to see if Zara had any beer in the fridge.
I’d met Zara on the first day of sophomore year when we’d sat next to each other in Cultural Pedagogy. When the professor had called for us to pick partners, we’d turned shyly to one another, given that our other options were the two greasy-haired boys sitting behind us. We went to lunch after that first class and found out we both loved gothic fiction, reality dating shows, and onion rings. We’d started meeting for lunch twice a week.
Four years later, we were still best friends.
I cracked open a beer and pulled out my sketchbook. Whenever I was stressed, drawing helped me clear my mind. I flipped to the half-finished portrait of a faerie warrior riding a gray stallion and selected a moody gray pencil whose shade was called “Storm.”
It wasn’t long before the door flung open. “Willow?”
Zara came striding into the kitchen, dressed in a slinky black sequin gown with a beaded flapper hem. Her choppy black hair was held back with a tiara. She dropped her clutch on the island and pulled me into a hug. “What an asshole! Do you want me to put out a hit on Professor Decker? My family has connections.”
I wasn’t entirely sure she was joking. I’d intentionally never dug too far into the Olegev family business, and the rumors as to therealnature of their dealings involved guns and unmarked cash and cement shoes. Either way, I shook my head. “I just want to forget it.” I flicked the beaded fringe on her dress. “How was the charity thing?”
She shrugged. “The oysters were good.” Then her eyes danced a little mischievously in the way they did whenever she had good gossip. “Severn Wilde stirred up some drama.”
“Oh yeah? Do tell. I need a distraction. Drama that isn’t my own.”
She sank onto the sofa, the glimmer in her eyes growing. “When he showed up, everyone wanted to talk to him. He said about five words to the CEO of some tech company and then disappeared back in his limo, but Catalina Aaronson and Inez Ronale both ran after him and ended up getting in a catfight with each other while he just drove away.”
It came as no surprise to hear socialites were fighting over Severn. Not only was he wealthy, but it didn’t hurt that he had smoldering green eyes and a jawline that could cut stone. He easily could have been a model, but he was rumored to hate the limelight, preferring to conduct his business in private in Wilde Tower.
“You didn’t chase after him, too?” I teased.
She rolled her eyes—she’d dated men before, but rarely. “Ichased after Catalina. Swooped in to rescue her when Inez pushed her over in her high heels.” She smirked, proud of herself. “We have a date next Friday.”
I gave her an admiring look. “Nicely done.”
Her smile dropped as she squeezed my hand. “You sure you’re okay?”
I let out a deep sigh. “I will be.”
